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Friday, 15 January 2010

Those of you who’ve been with this blog a while will undoubtedly know Tills. Not personally, perhaps, but you’ll certainly be aware of her as one of the key mates who saw me through The Bullshit. She was the first friend I called after getting my diagnosis.The one who arranged my fabulous pre-chemo haircut. The one who ensured I had fancy pyjamas. The one who I yawped at despite her giving up a morning to help me buy a wig. The one who met me after my final radiotherapy session with a magnum of cava, and discussed nipple shades in the reconstruction clinic. The one who took the piss out of Calum Best when we found ourselves sitting beside him in a tattoo-studio waiting room. The one who stayed calm and caring on New Image Day when I dragged her along to two different colourists in three hours and had a diva strop in Topshop. The one who created the legendary tit-cupcakes for my Super Sweet 30th. And the one who’s regularly to be found being protectively supportive (not to mention pulling me up on my bullshit) in the comments section of these here pages. Lately, though, Tills has had a bit more on her plate than looking after a sick mate or leaving witty responses to blog posts. Because on Christmas Day, at 11.30am, Tills gave birth to a 6lb 8oz bundle of scrumptiousness called Bea. Round of applause, please.

(Actually, while we’re clapping the rites of passage of my lovely girlfriends, do keep up the ovation for Busby, who’s now mum to Eli; Leaks, who’s about to add a boy to the family; Suze, who’s gone for the hat-trick with Oscar; Rose, who’s carrying perhaps the most brilliantly styled baby bump I’ve ever seen; Polls, who’s cemented her place as The Most Successful Person I Know by becoming Whitehall Correspondent for The Guardian; and my soon-to-be-wed pals Weeza, Ali, Kristen and Lil. See what happens when you’re friends with me? Exciting stuff, that’s what. Because, obviously, all of the above is entirely my doing. Obviously.)

Anyway, back to business. Those of you who know of Tills might have been surprised to read her baby news, what with me having posted only a cursory, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mention about her pregnancy. And I don’t quite know what my response to that is. Because, when Tills called to tell me that she and Si would be having a baby, I wasn’t quite sure of my response to that, either. Granted, I squealed and clapped and promised to verse her firstborn in The Beatles, pub-quiz pop trivia, accessorising and the offside rule, but – given The Bullshit’s blow to mine and P’s fertility – my joy for Tills and Si was always going to be ever so slightly muddied by a spoilsport pang of what might’ve been. (Three rings of the phone gave me a window in which to react in the excited manner that Tills so rightfully deserved, mind you. My mates know how much I hate speaking on the phone, so when there’s ringing instead of a text beep, it’s generally time to steel yourself for Big News.)

Immediately after getting that phonecall, I had a confused little sob – perhaps it was at the reminder of the aforementioned muddy spoilsport pang, or the fact that said muddy spoilsport pang was threatening to stop me from being as excited for my dear friend as I wanted to be. Perhaps it was because I didn’t want anything to sully my enthusiasm for the role of Auntie Lisa, or because I hoped Tills' news wouldn’t force other people to jump to ahh-you-must-wish-that-was-you conclusions. Perhaps I was mourning the inevitable change in one of my most-valued friendships. Or perhaps it was simply down to the fear that the only Big News I might ever have to tell my friends in the future would be similar to that which I received when I was 28.

The first time I saw a pregnant Tills was a few days later, when she came with me to the reconstruction clinic to hold my hand prior to phase two of my nipple-tattooing. And, rather ridiculously for a friend I’ve known for over a decade, I was as nervous about seeing her as I was about my hospital appointment, afraid that I’d not look as pleased about her news as I felt, that I’d come across as jealous or bitter, or – worse yet – that my eyes would leak a retraction to my joyful response.

Equally weird was getting the right balance of baby versus cancer. The thing is, once you’ve done the congratulations and the due dates and the scan results and the promises to drink twice as much booze while your friend is out of action, you inevitably have to go back to normal conversation. And when you’re in the waiting room of a cancer clinic, there’s only really one topic on the table – and it's one hell of a buzz-kill. Like rain on your wedding day, or a black fly in your Chardonnay. Or ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife. Or something.

The same thing happens whenever there’s any kind of Big News, of course, be it cancer or pregnancy or engagement or wedding or new job or book deal. (See? Any excuse.) You have to constantly censor yourself on it, slamming on the brakes to make sure you’ve not driven headlong over the Big News Bore cliff-edge. And ever since my diagnosis – much like after P put a diamond ring on my finger – my inner voice has had to work overtime to curb the self-obsession. ‘Yep, you’re still going to the hospital regularly. Yep, you’re feeling better than you have in a while. Yep, your hair’s getting long again. Right, Lis, that’s more than enough cancer chat. Now stop talking about yourself and ask about the baby.’

The trouble is, when everything has been All About You for so long, it becomes a hard habit to break. It’s not that you’re pleased that cancer has made things so me-me-me, of course, but I’d be fibbing if I said that the attention it brings was an unwelcome side effect. It’s lovely that people want to call you and visit you and read your blog and send you cards and bake you biscuits. You just wish it were for a different reason.

But – even now – every so often, there’s an unscheduled debrief in which I simply have to talk about The Bullshit, as though I still need convincing that it actually happened. (I may write about it all the time, but it’s a rare occasion when it crops up in dialogue.) And judging by an hour-long cancer-conversation I had with – and initiated by, I should add – Lil earlier this week, it seems my mates still occasionally need convincing of its reality, too. Afraid that I had been secretly rating her levels of upset at my Big News, Lil was at pains to tell me how it had affected her.

‘I made a point of not crying in front of you, you know,’ she assured me. ‘I wanted to keep things as normal as possible.’

‘And you did, love,’ I said. ‘In fact all along you were one of the best at treating me exactly the same way as you always had,’ I added, thrilled at being able to use the past tense.

‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I just want you to know that I always cried when I left you, okay?’

‘I know, bird,’ I agreed. ‘But it’s not like I was keeping a tally of who cried and who didn’t.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ she winked, before I switched subjects to her beautiful engagement ring, bombarding her with wedding magazines and guaranteeing her a hen night to remember.

Just as it is for many of my friends, this is an exciting time for Lil. (And ain’t that just where your thirties whoop the ass of your twenties?) Being proposed to on Christmas morning (at the same time that Tills was in labour with Bea, funnily enough) put the icing on a happy month in which she’d also started a new career in PR, working beside a colleague we’d each met in a former job.

‘He was asking about you actually,’ she mentioned.

‘Oh?’ I said.

‘Yeah, he got confused about your name-change. I think he was trying to figure out whether Lisa McFarlane and Lisa Lynch were the same person.’

‘Heh. So am I,’ I thought.

‘So I filled him in on what you’d been up to since,’ said Lil. ‘About the wedding and the new jobs and that.’

‘Cool, cool,’ I hummed, expecting to hear another When You Had Cancer story.

‘And then I stopped myself,’ she said. ‘I was going to tell him about The Bullshit, but then I thought, “No, actually. Leave it there. It’s not important. She’s past it; she’s better.” Is that okay?’

And it is. It’s brilliant. And not just because Lil had talked about my career before my cancer. But also because in the course of our conversation it dawned on me that, in the eyes of the people who matter, I’d at long last rejoined the ranks as Just Another Thirtysomething, capable of getting as giddy about the exciting stuff happening in their lives as the exciting stuff happening in mine. Granted, my own Big News may be more book-shaped than bride-shaped or baby-shaped, but that doesn’t make it any less welcome. And, better still, being able to slowly edge The Bullshit out of the headlines has created vital space for far more newsworthy stuff, like shopping for gorgeous wedding outfits, eyeing up L-plates for Lil’s hen night and opening an iTunes account for Bea. That’s right, Tills – Auntie Lisa’s Lesson In Pop begins here.

Wonderfully written as always Lisa. Wish I could convey my feelings in words the way you do. Very much looking forward to the book. Having my own Super Sweet party tomorrow with my twin brother (inspired by you but I've got 10 years on you) for Alzheimers which my Mum has.Congratulations to Tills and the others. Lorri

I started reading your blog in October (after stumbling over your interview for "DerWesten") - but did it in chronological order and became up to date early December. Ever since I thought about writing you, telling you, how much this blog means to me as I have lost my mum in Feb. 09 to cancer. But I never knew what to write exactly. But this post, two days after two little lines told me that I'm expecting (and I'm still being quite confused bout that) - that's the perfect time!

So: Thanks Lisa for sharing your story and for making me cry and laugh and just understand better. I'm so happy for you that your live develops in such a great way. I'm looking forward to your book.

@ Tills: Congratulations! I always waited for this blog post as I didn't skip the hint of announcement Lisa gave her readers...

Blimey Mac, I come off awfully well in this one. Actually reader, I am queen of inappropriate comment and flapping. You know, I cried after I phoned to tell you we were expecting too - for really similar reasons to you. But worrying what to say and how to say it around you is really in the past for me now. The bullshit is increasingly crowded out by all the brilliant stuff that is filling up our lives. Books, babies, holidays, weddings, careers... Being us is ace. Love you x

Another brilliant post. As someone who thought I couldn't have children (not Bullshit related) when all my friends were having babies, I so recognise that happy for them, sad for me, happy for them feeling, and feeling bad for feeling it.As with so much of your blog, it's not really about The Bullshit but how the bull-shit of life effects us all, but the show must go on, and sometimes it is tougher than others, and sometimes it is bloody marvellous, and with so many exciting things happening in your life, it is bloody marvelous, I am so pleased for you.

Eh up

Welcome to the website of me, Lisa Lynch: author, editor, blogger, wife, Ram, telly-addict, doofus, cancer bitch (but not, I hasten to add, cancer's bitch). The latter of those things is what initially got me blogging, swearing my way through The Bullshit following a pesky breast-cancer diagnosis at 28. Some three years down the line – with newly grown hair, a newly published book and a newly perky rack – I dared to assume that I'd seen the worst… only for the c-word to crop up once more: this time in my bones and brain, and this time incurable.

And so, from being a blog intended to chart my evolution from 'the girl who has cancer' to merely 'the girl', it seems we're back to the former. (If, indeed, it's still acceptable to even call yourself a girl in your thirties. Which, let's be honest, it probably isn't.) But before you write this off as Just Another Moany Health Blog, stick with me. Because cancer or no cancer, curable or incurable… I'll still tell it the way I see it. The universe might be in control of what’s going on in my body, but I'm in control of what’s going on in my blog. Which is why I hope you'll continue to join me as I write my way through my experiences. You see, this isn't a story about some poor, unlucky lass being taken down by cancer; it's simply a story about the extraordinary life of an ordinary girl woman.

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